


Butterfly Hair Clips

by intangible_girl



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Gen, Humor, Makeup, Shopping, and other girly things being done by manly men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2302391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intangible_girl/pseuds/intangible_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint, who went to hair school, is being driven a little bit mad by Bucky's ragged haircut. Bucky is trying to learn to trust people who aren't Steve. These two facts turn out to match up nicley.</p><p>"Just put it up in a ponytail," he says. "No braids."</p><p>"Sure," Clint says, giving him a smile. "But you gotta tell me you're willing to let me do something about those split ends. They're killing me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butterfly Hair Clips

“Stop that!” Bucky snaps, and Clint clenches his hands into fists.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice contrite but his face unrepentant. “Been itching to do something with that hair, man. You just gonna leave it like that or what?”

Bucky stares at him, his grip still tight on the knife strapped to his thigh. He doesn't think for a second that Clint doesn't notice him holding it, but he makes no indication that he does. For someone who'd been _twitching_ not ten seconds ago he's remarkably still under Bucky's gaze.

“Do what?” he rasps, still feeling rabbity and uncertain, but willing himself to trust that this is a safe place and he is among safe people. He comes to Avengers Tower to get used to being around other people in a place where the only people he's likely to meet are ones Steve trusts, but he knows that if he doesn't start to trust them himself he might as well stop coming. The compromise with his nerves is this: he will keep hold of the knife, but he will give Clint a chance to explain himself.

“I dunno, we could start with a braid or something, but you gotta tell me you're willing to talk about trimming those split ends. They're killing me.”

Clint gives him a smile he can't interpret, and Bucky feels stupid but he _can't help himself:_ he glances down at the ends of his hair, visible against his cheek. Suddenly the feel of his own hair on his face makes him claustrophobic, and he remembers being shaved once or twice and having his hair washed occasionally, but never receiving a haircut. He blinks and he is hyper-aware of the way his hair slides against his eyelashes.

“Just... just put it up,” he says, easing his grip on the knife with painful deliberateness. This will be a test, he decides. It will be the first time Bucky will have let someone that isn't Steve get behind him and touch him while doing so. Clint has never given him reason not to trust him. Steve trusts him, which means a lot. He will have his knife. It is just a test. It is just hair. “No braids.”

“I'll get a brush,” Clint says, as though there is nothing strange or new going on, and returns a few minutes later with a soft-looking brush and a hair tie. He sits on the couch and pats the cushion next to him, and Bucky, who is sitting in an armchair, wonders why he didn't just stand behind the chair he is already sitting in. Then he imagines it happening and grasps the full extent of Clint's wisdom: on the couch they are more or less next to each other, whereas Clint would have a sizable advantage standing behind Bucky in a plush armchair. He edges over to the couch and turns slightly, the movement smooth and slow and deliberate. Clint speaks before putting the brush to his hair.

“I'll just brush it out first, and then I'll put it up, okay?”

Bucky thinks Clint must be moving slowly, and he takes the tail ends of Bucky's hair gently, but Bucky still flinches hard at the first touch. He forces himself still, despite the shivering tension vibrating just under his skin, and after a moment Clint starts moving again, bringing the brush to his hair and pulling it through.

It's a sensation Bucky's not sure he's ever felt before, though logically someone must have combed his hair at some point. At first it's mildly unpleasant despite the care Clint is taking, but then he gets out all the tangles and the strokes are smooth and long, and the brush positively _massages_ his scalp and he can forget there is someone behind him and just concentrate on the sensation, which is the nicest he can remember receiving. He isn't sure, but Clint seems to take longer than is strictly necessary for utilitarian purposes. Since all he's doing is prolonging something that is pleasurable to Bucky and, apparently, satisfying in some way to himself, Bucky finds he doesn't mind.

“All right,” he murmurs after Bucky is starting to feel a little boneless, “just a ponytail.”

Clint’s broad, smooth hands on his head feel nice after the bristles of the brush, and the end result is firm without being too tight.

Clint exhales, a satisfied noise, and scoots back. Bucky turns slowly.

“Is that better?” Clint asks, and Bucky runs his hands over his head, marvelling at the smoothness of his own hair. His face feels exposed, but in a good way, and despite having just been almost put to sleep he feels more alert and awake than he can remember feeling in a while.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, amazed that this is true. “Better.”

-

Steve's face does that thing where he is trying _so hard_ to be nonchalant even though everyone knows Steve is pathologically incapable of being convincingly nonchalant, but Bucky is pleased that he likes it, though he wishes Steve would just _say_ so.

“It looks good,” he says instead, which is almost the same thing, but not quite. Steve is very careful not to say anything that even _hints_ of making decisions for Bucky, which, for Pete's sake, Steve, he's not going to go into convulsions if you let him know which restaurant you'd prefer. Not that they go to restaurants. Bucky's still not great with crowds and HYDRA hasn't exactly given up looking for him, so he pretty much stays indoors except for the occasional walk in the sunshine Steve carefully doesn't suggest.

Bucky rewards Steve's overly careful but genuine admission of opinion with a quick smile, and is pleased by the resultant one that lights up Steve's face.

-

Bucky lets Clint know that he actually has no idea if standing behind him with a blade in his hand is a good idea, because while it certainly makes him nervous, what he's really concerned about is the very real possibility that he will blank out and come to himself having murdered Clint horribly because he saw a pair of scissors in his peripheral vision.

“You could do it yourself,” Clint points out, shrugging. “If all you want's a trim, I could just tell you where to cut.”

Bucky kind of hates it when Clint gets reasonable and accommodating. He does manage to talk him through a pretty good haircut, though.

-

Clint takes him shopping.

Bucky's figured out that men these days have some pretty strange ideas about masculinity, one of which is that it's somehow taboo to care overmuch about fashion, but a. they all do anyway, b. his masculinity was one of the precious few things that was _not_ thrown into question by his various and sundry ordeals, and c. he's pretty sure that even dopes who know nothing about fashion know it's not on to wear your friend's clothes all the time instead of owning your own.

The sunglasses and hoodie Clint put him in make him look like a celebrity going incognito, but in New York that doesn't necessarily make him stand out, so he allows it. They take a taxi to the mall for the full undercover experience, going on a Tuesday morning to avoid crowds. As they mall-crawl Bucky finds himself wondering where Clint learned so much about clothes, which is the first time in a long time he can remember showing genuine interest in another human being's inner thoughts and desires that wasn't Steve, so he indulges it and asks.

“Nat's always getting me to help her with her undercover stuff,” Clint says, pulling out a black t-shirt and holding it up to Bucky for a moment. He clucks disapprovingly and puts it back before taking out another one that, to Bucky, looks completely identical and nods in approval. “At first I think she was just indulging me, but eventually it kind of became a thing. She lets me do her makeup all the time, which is nice. I don't really get a chance to practice much these days.”

“You do makeup?” Bucky asks, startled. Clint grins softly.

“I used to. I didn't exactly know what to do with my life when I graduated high school and I knew college probably wasn't in the cards, so I went to hair school. Then I realized I liked makeup better and switched, and then the day I graduated I realized I hated the whole fashion industry with a passion and joined the army.” He shrugs. “That was where SHIELD found me.”

“The army didn't let you do archery,” Bucky says, querulously. “Did you pick that up later?”

“Nah, that was always there. I've been slinging arrows since I was a little kid, I just didn't think you could make a career out of it. It was SHIELD that told me I could make a career out of killing people, and that I was good enough at arrows I could kill people with those.”

Bucky mulls this over as he pulls out a neon yellow shirt and imagines for a moment the forbidden thrill of wearing something so garish. Then he puts it back.

“Would you choose different, now?” he asks, the idea of choosing the path of your own life something that's been on his mind lately.

“What, you mean do I wish I'd stuck with makeup or something?” Clint tilts his head thoughtfully, hands buried in a rack of scarves. “Nah. I mean, it'd maybe be less of a stain on my conscience, but part of the reason I left was because it was all so... nothing, you know? It didn't mean anything. People can live and die and do everything in between without looking pretty. I wanted to do something that mattered. Killing people matters. You just have to be careful you're killing the right people for the right reasons, you know?”

Bucky knows. He's not sure he's ready for the field yet (though he's getting to the point where he needs to make a decision or let not making one _be_ his decision), but even back when he'd been James Buchanan Barnes the sniper he'd known that killing people was something he was frighteningly good at. Getting to pick and choose his targets feels like the best life he could realistically hope for. (There's a thought, buried underneath a lot of things back from even that time as just a sniper in the army, that he'd have liked it if his life hadn't had to involve killing at all, but he knows it's too late for that now even supposing it hadn't been then, and he doesn't look at the thought too closely.)

They build him a wardrobe consisting of a lot of black t-shirts and denim, but Clint gives him a basic but thorough lesson in accessorizing, so he also ends up with three scarves, two pairs of sunglasses, a few odd pieces of (quite masculine) jewelry, and several pairs of shoes that don't look practical at all but are actually quite easy to run in.

(Clint also sneaks the neon shirt in without Bucky noticing, and the sheer skill it had to have taken to do that, coupled with the thoughtfulness of the gesture, mean that when Sam does a double-take at it the next time he's over, Bucky has a hard time not punching him in the face.)

-

Steve likes the blue tennis shoes and the straight-leg jeans but refuses to say so, so Bucky wears them for a week straight. Then after a full seven days he finally smells himself and thinks maybe trying reserve-reverse psychology was a bad idea. He dumps the jeans in the washer and kicks the shoes to the back of his closet, wondering if Clint would notice if he never wore them again. The relief Steve is careful to hide when he sees him in different clothes is an exhausting _weight_ that Bucky can't carry, and he shows up at the Tower that afternoon with an overnight bag and an absurd hope that Clint is around.

“I am sorry, friend James,” Thor tells him apologetically, one hand on the refrigerator door and the other cradling two beer steins, “Clinton is not here. I expect he will return before evening, however.”

Bucky kind of likes that Thor calls him James. No one ever really called him that (even his Ma usually just used 'hey you'), so it is pleasingly clean of associations. He's toyed with the idea of going by it instead of Bucky, but even just the idea of facing Steve's carefully hidden approval (or possibly his equally carefully hidden disapproval) makes him tired, so he's never brought it up. He sits at the counter across from where Thor is easily juggling four different bottles of alcohol in one huge hand and just watches. Thor notices him staring and smiles welcomingly.

“I have been informed by my lady Jane that it is not seemly for a Midgardian male of my age to lack gainful employment, and my friend Darcy tells me I would make a 'bitching' bartender, and so I am attempting to learn the art of mixing drinks. Would you care to sample my work?”

Bucky decides he likes Thor a lot.

-

Clint gets in well after dark to the sight of Bucky slumped on the countertop, wishing he were dead. He's not like Steve: he _can_ get drunk, it just takes an alarming amount of alcohol to do it, and the buzz doesn't last long. At Thor's slow, beginner's pace he'd managed to feel vaguely tipsy for about half an hour and now he just has a ferocious need to pee and a matching headache. Clint takes in the scene (Thor with his sleeves rolled up holding a shaker, Bucky scowling with the ice bucket pressed to his forehead) and laughs, setting down his gear and taking a seat next to Bucky.

“Bartender, a Red Russian, if you please.”

Thor, who is growing frustrated with his lack of finesse, grimaces gratefully at the softball request and grabs the vodka.

“Can I live here?” Bucky mumbles at Clint with his eyes closed. “Steve's being weird.”

“I gotta be honest, brother: to me, Steve's always a little weird. So you're gonna have to be more specific.”

Clint unzips his tac vest with a sigh of relief and shrugs it off, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. Bucky winces at the idea of having to form complex sentences, but he makes an effort through the headache.

“Steve's normally such a little shit and... and now he's...”

“Wait, wait, what?” Clint stares at him incredulously. “Steve Rogers. Captain America. The greatest soldier in history. A little shit.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and then regrets it.

“They leave out the part where he lied on his enlistment form _five times_?”

“Well, no, but―” Clint's staring at him, and Bucky remembers that Steve doesn't hang out at the Tower very much. All these people may well have no idea about him. He grins.

“Let me tell you about the time Steve dressed up like a dame to get the drop on some chump who was copping feels on the train.”

-

Bucky wakes up the next morning with his headache completely gone, but his mouth completely dry. He can't even work up enough saliva to wet his tongue, which feels like sandpaper. He stumbles to the nearest bathroom and ducks his head under the sink, lapping from it like a dog. After a few minutes he feels much better and lifts his head to look in the mirror, rubbing at his face, which feels oddly... greasy.

Oh. Oh no.

“Clint, you utter, little _shit_ ,” he informs his reflection, which is wearing purple eyeshadow, miles of blush, and bright red lipstick. There is a little butterfly clip dangling precariously from the tips of his hair; his eyelashes are obscenely long and his eyeliner is thick and, by now, smeared. He looks like a drag queen without the queen. “Clint!” he yells again, turning to stomp out the bathroom door to track his prey, only to find his prey lounging smugly against the doorframe with his phone pointed at Bucky. He isn't tapping it, which means he is likely taking video. Bucky bares his teeth and pounces.

-

Steve, of course, is disappointed when he figures out Bucky hasn't just wandered off for a night; that he has plans to actually move out. But he very carefully doesn't show it, and Bucky, who finds he can tolerate this sort of thing a lot better when he doesn't have to deal with it 24/7, sighs and says,

“You do know we'll still be friends, right?”

And later Bucky will wonder if Clint had maybe said something to him, because Steve takes on this guileless look that apparently some people take at face value and says,

“I don't know, Buck, you're into such... strange... hobbies these days.”

He holds up a photo of a made-up Bucky glaring murderously at the camera, his big blue eyes furrowed in an almost concerned expression. It's kind of unbelievable how good it is to see Steve being cheeky again, like he hadn't _imagined_ the whole thing, and out of sheer relief Bucky slings an arm around his neck and gives him a good, hard noogie.

“Don't knock it, Rogers; Clint graduated from makeup school. That is a _professionally done_ blackmail photo, and speaking of which―”

The resultant wrassle for possession of Steve's phone breaks a couple pieces of furniture. Neither of them care.

 


End file.
